


The Lone Sailor

by fanoftheprofoundbond



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Peterick, What A Catch Donnie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanoftheprofoundbond/pseuds/fanoftheprofoundbond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick had always loved sailing - the wide, open sea and sky stretching for miles and miles every which way. Maybe he belonged to the sea. He knew he wanted to. But the sea couldn’t hold him when he was feeling bad. --- A chaptered fic based on the workings of my own imagination echoing off the "What A Catch, Donnie" music video and the headcanon that Pete was the seagull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I've Got Troubled Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [druscilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/gifts).



Patrick had always loved sailing - the wide, open sea and sky stretching for miles and miles every which way. He was finally alone, could finally breathe because he was away from it all. The fresh salt spray and air would fill his lungs and, for the first time in a long time, they were finally clear.

He had a fiancé back on the mainland whom he would have to marry when he got back. He didn’t quite know why he had promised to do it. It wasn’t because her father was wealthy. It wasn’t for her, either, because while Emmaline was a sweet girl, she was a little annoying. She would cling to his arm and brag about him to all of her friends. She would never leave his side. Patrick couldn’t get a moment’s peace.

It was because he felt a need to finally settle down, belong somewhere, he decided. He knew he would miss the sea - but the sea was lonely, too. Patrick knew it wasn’t good for him to be alone all the time. Sometimes when he was alone in bed, he would cry because he just felt so alone. The tears rolled down slowly, silently. They tasted a little like the sea. Maybe he belonged to the sea. He knew he wanted to. But the sea couldn’t hold him when he was feeling bad. Instead, the wind would howl, a lonely sound that only made him feel worse.

Patrick was in his bunk, thinking such lonely thoughts, feeling sorry for himself like the miserable fucker he was, when he was startled by the sound of a dull t hud from the deck above. He waited with bated breath. There was a small scratching noise from above his head. Then nothing.

Cautiously, so as not to make the least noise, Patrick rolled over in his bunk until his feet were touching the floor. Planting them firmly on the ground, the sailor padded softly over to the door. He made his way to the ladder leading to the deck above, hoping that his last sanding job would prevent any splinters, for he hadn’t had any time to pull on socks. He quickly, quietly, made his way up the ladder and, not breathing, peeked over the last rung of the ladder.

A lone seagull lay sprawled on the deck. As Patrick watched, the bird flapped its wings, vainly, and then lay still.

_Was it dead?_ Patrick quickly clambered up the rest of the ladder and crawled over to the bird. The seagull flapped at him, trying to get away, but it couldn’t.

“It’s okay, boy,” Patrick soothed the animal. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help. Can I look?” He nodded in the direction of the bird’s wing closest to him.

The bird looked at him. It’s eyes were intelligent, black and needy, suspicious, and, perhaps, a little afraid. But after a moment of staring at Patrick, its eyes became softer. When Patrick moved forward a second time, the seagull didn’t try to move away.

Patrick gently lifted up the bird’s wing. He sharply intook breath when he saw the leg underneath, bleeding and bent in a funny way.

The bird made a horrible crying noise and tears sprang to the sailor’s eyes. Not only was the leg injured, but the other wing was mangled, feathers missing.

“I’m going to patch you up, okay? I’m going to make you better. I promise,” Patrick whispered.

As he picked the bird up, carefully, it cited out again, but when it was in Patrick’s arms, the man could have sworn that the bird sighed softly before resting its head against his shoulder.


	2. A Self-Esteem to Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The first time Pete ever said anything to me, he said - ‘do you like salami?’ Yes, that’s precisely what he said!”

When Emmaline had accepted Patrick’s proposal of marriage, he had honestly been a little bit surprised. He wasn’t the most handsome of men - ginger hair was seen as a suspicious rarity among men that might prove as a mark of witchcraft. His cheeks were puffy, his hips were too wide, and he had the slightest double chin, especially if he laughed. Patrick therefore made it his goal to never laugh if possible. This sent all the maidens in the fishing town talking. _How quiet and stern that Patrick is. I knew sailors were a strange folk, but at least the others are friendly._

Who would want to marry him, especially with that extra belly fat that Patrick saw in the mirror every time he changed his shirt. He hated it. Patrick had tried joining the Men’s Running Club, but he had became fatigued pretty quickly. He had tried climbing up and down flights of stairs as fast as he could, once in the morning and once in the evening. But whatever he did, his stomach stayed the way it was until, finally, Patrick decided to give up. 

He hated it. It made him hate himself just a little bit. Why couldn’t he get rid of the extra fat? Other people could. Look at the butcher’s wife! She had been five times larger than he and within a year, was now one of the skinniest people in the village.

It was with a start that Patrick woke to feeling something heavy on his chest. Opening his eyes, he saw the seagull looking down at him with those intelligent eyes. He had made a comfy little bed for it on the dresser, but the bird had refused to sleep there… and so, Patrick had brought the bird to bed with him, hoping that he wouldn’t crush it from rolling over in sleep, something he knew that he tended to do quite often.

“Hey, boy,” he said softly. “Had a good sleep? Are you feeling a little better?”

The bird cocked its head and looked at Patrick in a way that the sailor was quickly beginning to realize was an expression of disgust.

“What?” he asked, throwing his hands up in the air as far as they could go without hitting the bunk above - a storage space. “I don’t have any other name for you. What do I call you?”

It was only after the bird gave a pleased nod that Patrick had realized what he had said. He had understand the seagull with merely looks and head movements.

“Well…” he said quietly, thinking a little. “Back when I was in school in the fishing village, the kids were never really very nice to me. Except one little boy. His name was Pete.”

Patrick closed his eyes, reminiscing, missing the bird’s frantic wing and head gestures.

“I used to sit alone during lunch time every day, watching the other children play. I wasn’t fast enough to race with the boys, and the girls didn’t want to play with me, either. Pete was popular. He was fast. He could have won their races and made friends of them all. But he didn’t.”

Patrick smiled a little at the memory.

“He came and sat with me every lunch time. At first, we didn’t talk. Then one day, Pete spoke up. And you know what he said?”

The sailor opened his eyes and looked at the seagull. The bird was walking further down his body, up a little to settle on his stomach, before it turned around and cocked its head at Patrick with an interested look in its eyes.

Patrick felt the slightest sinking feeling in his gut. But it was only a bird. A bird wouldn’t care that he had a big stomach. In fact, the seagull seemed more comfortable sitting there than it had been on his chest.

The seagull made an impatient crow as if to urge Patrick, _Go on. I’m waiting. I haven’t all day. Well, I sort of do… but you know. Go on with it!_

Patrick chuckled a little and found his memory entangling among the stories of Pete again.

“The first time Pete ever said anything to me, he said - ‘do you like salami?’ Yes, that’s precisely what he said!”

The sailor would have thrown back his head and laughed, but since he was lying down, he wasn’t in the best position for doing so. Instead, he shook a little with silent mirth.

“I said, ‘What?’ and Pete repeated, ‘Do you like salami? My mother gave me a salami sandwich and I don’t like salami. Would you like it?’”

The seagull made a little noise in the back of its throat, a gurgling noise that Patrick soon realized was laughter. The bird made that noise for a few seconds before finally throwing its head back and making a loud, joyful noise. Patrick winced a little at the high pitch, but he couldn’t help smiling, watching the bird enjoy his story. The seagull laughed in a way that almost reminded him of Pete again - that little boy of whom he hadn’t thought of in years.

“And I said…” Patrick had to stop a moment because now he was laughing again. “I said, ‘I love salami. My mother made me peanut butter and I don’t like it very much.’ ‘I love peanut butter,’ Pete replied, already reaching out a hand for the sandwich. So we switched. We talked a lot - about life, our interests, our plans for the future…”

Patrick’s eyes became a little watery. “Pete wanted to be a sailor, like I am now. But his father didn’t think that was a respectable position. He wanted Pete to be a carpenter. To teach Pete a lesson, he sent Pete to live with his grandparents. His grandfather was a carpenter - it ran in the family.” 

The sailor got quiet and didn’t speak for a while. The seagull ruffled the feathers of its good wing, stood up, and hobbled off Patrick’s stomach and back to its chest, where it settled near Patrick’s face, reaching out its good wing and stroking his cheek just a little. Patrick closed his eyes at the soft feeling of wing and managed to smile a little. He reached out a hand and stroked the seagull’s back very softly with two fingers, being as careful as possible so as not to touch the mangled wing, the damage being quite widespread.

“That was the last time I ever saw Pete,” Patrick whispered. “I only saw him for five months in my last year of mandatory school. But they were the best five months of my life.”

The seagull made a cooing noise. Patrick swore he could almost hear words within the melody of sound.

_It’s alright. I understand. I’m sorry. I’m here for you now._

“I think I’ll call you Pete, if that’s alright,” Patrick said softly as the seagull looked at him with a worried expression in its beady eyes. “Because you remind me of him a little. You and him are the only ones who have ever been nice to me.”

The seagull snuggled closer. The soft flutter of wing against his face and the cooing noise in his ears made Patrick pretty sure that the bird was quite alright with the name choice.


	3. All I Can Think Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's kind of a short chapter but I'm busy working on a psychology project on bipolar and I thought I would take a break to write. I'm hoping to get things starting moving next chapter. Oh, and I positively suck at titles.

“Well, I can’t help it if you don’t like the food I’ve got!” Patrick grumbled as he lifted up a heaping spoon of oatmeal from the bowl he had set in front of Pete and put it into his own mouth. “I thought birds liked grain,” he mumbled with a full mouth, a sour expression on his face.

The seagull sitting on the table looked just as annoyed, perhaps even more so. Pete had been perching on the sailor’s shoulder as he cooked breakfast, but as soon as the oatmeal started to bubble, it had made a disgusted (and disgusting) gagging noise until Patrick had to put him on the table so that he could get the cooking done. Then, when Patrick had poured some of the cereal into a bowl and set it in front of the bird, Pete pointedly moved away from the bowl as fast as he could.

“What else am I supposed to give you, huh?” Patrick asked the bird. He had barely even time to finish speaking before Pete leaned his head forward and grabbed a strip of bacon off Patrick’s plate. He quickly hobbled backwards, the bacon trailing afterwards him as Patrick reached out a hand.

“Hey!” Patrick exclaimed. “That’s mine! Eat your own breakfast!”

He could have sworn that the seagull gave him a sly, amused look before it threw back its head and quickly gobbled down the entire strip of bacon. After it had finished, it made a pleased sound.

“Fine. Have my bacon. I’ll eat your breakfast,” Patrick grumbled unhappily, pushing the plate towards the bird.

To Patrick’s surprise, Pete hesitated. He looked at Patrick with a questioning look in his eyes as if to ask _Are you sure? It’s okay. I don’t want to eat your favourite food._

Patrick found his heart softening a little on the sight of the bird before him, a memory beginning to intertwine with the picture.

“Have it,” he encouraged, pushing the plate a little closer to Pete. “I like oatmeal better anyway,” he added, a lie that he didn’t mind making for his new friend’s sake.

It was so weird, the way that Pete kept reminding him of… the other Pete. He found himself thinking of Pete quite a lot recently… too much, probably. He remembered how the other boys had kept begging Pete to play with him. He would sometimes join them, but would always ask Patrick first.

“Do you want to join?” he has asked, a yearning look in those wide-eyed browns that almost made Patrick choose his mind. But he shook his head.

“No. I’m not good at tag. I… I always fall down,” he was ashamed to explain.

Pete didn’t seem to think any less of him, however. In fact, he came back to the fence.

“Then I won’t play, either,” he said. “I don’t like tag very much.”

“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I don’t want to hold you back. I want you to have fun. Go have fun without me. I’ll be fine just watching. Really I will. I… want to watch,” he admitted hesitatingly.

“If you’re sure…” Pete still seemed on the edge between staying and leaving.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

So Pete played with the other boys. He was faster than any of them, good at dodging and turning on his heel at the very last moment. Patrick was pretty sure that if he hadn’t been such a good sport, Pete would have never been ‘it.’ And he could tell that Pete had been lying - he definitely did enjoy the game. There came such a sparkle in his eyes that Patrick’s heart yearned a little. He wished he could make Pete happy like that. But he wasn’t good at games.

From time to time, though, Pete would come over.

“I need a rest break,” he said.

He wasn’t sweating or panting at all. But Patrick didn’t mention that fact. He was just grateful of the company, though he didn’t see why Pete would have any interest in sitting with him at all.

_Squawk?_

Patrick was startled out of his reverie by a noise from the new Pete. The seagull was looking at him expectantly. When Pete saw that he had caught the sailor’s attention, he looked down at the plate and then back at Patrick again.

There was one last strip of bacon on the plate. Patrick didn’t quite understand what the bird was trying to tell him until Pete leaned down again and nudged the bacon with his beak closer to the sailor.

Patrick’s heart positively melted.

“Thank you,” he said softly, reaching out and taking the last strip between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll make more tomorrow for the both of us.”

Then he finished both his and Pete’s oatmeal. He found an old chicken bone in the cupboards, which Pete was quite happy to gnaw upon. Later, he would go fishing. He was sure Pete would enjoy a fish lunch.

Fishing was his plan for that morning. However, Patrick had only just settled down with his fishing rod after cleaning up the breakfast dishes when Pete, sitting near the steering wheel, lifted his head up from the chicken bone and exclaimed a warning cry.

Patrick pulled his rod back up onto the deck and quickly hurried over to the seagull.

“What is it, Pete?” he asked, picking up his spyglass and pulling it out, putting it to his eyes, and adjusting the telescopic lens. 

It took him a little while to focus (he had been meaning to replace it with a better spy glass - there had been a perfectly good one in the fishing market back home, but Patrick didn’t like to part with items that he had had for so many years. He had bought this spyglass himself just before his first sailing trip, even though his father had been perfectly willing to give him his old one.), but when he did, Patrick’s heart alternatively leaped then sank and then leaped again.

Pete made a loud, inquisitive grunting noise and Patrick lowered his spyglass, his fingers trembling a little.

“Pete,” he said slowly. “There’s a pirate ship coming this way very fast."


End file.
